


Soft Drabble by request

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, John Watson Needs A Hug, Kind Strangers, M/M, Panic Attacks, Public crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 20:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20120953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Soft, 'someone is crying and a stranger helps' AUs for my dear friend.The IH didn't turn out quite what I'd expected but I hope it still eases your heart. <3





	Soft Drabble by request

**Author's Note:**

  * For [englandwouldfalljohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/gifts).

**In the Good Omens universe, an angel sits on a bench...**

Aziraphale put down the newspaper. He didn’t know why he even bothered any more. Hell was winning; the humans were set to destroy themselves. He didn’t even know if it was Hell, or if the humans were simply determined to ensure they didn’t see the end of the next century.

His beloved Earth would be destroyed and it would break his heart.

Bowing his head, the tears fell like rain, fast and silent. Dark spots appeared on the linen trousers but he couldn’t bring himself to care. What did it matter when he couldn’t make a difference?

“You alright there?”

The voice was familiar, and Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat.

“Crowley?” he asked, raising his head and blinking into the sun.

“I’m sorry, no,” the reply came, and the angel realised his mistake. This voice was nothing like his demon. “My name’s Fred. I was just passing and…look, do you mind if I sit down?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale replied. He couldn’t be rude to this man, who was nothing like his Crowley. He looked older, and Crowley wouldn’t ever have chosen a buttoned down cardigan, even if it was red. And the eyes…the eyes were distressingly human. Kind, but human.

“You’ve been reading the newspapers,” Fred said, glancing at the headline.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “I find it distressing.”

“Of course you do,” Fred said. “It _is_ distressing. But, if you wouldn’t mind me pointing out…” he rifled through the paper. “They never put it on the front page, but there’s always another side to the story.”

Aziraphale took the proffered paper, reading a small headline on page five.

_Man Carries Children To Safety_

“What?” The angel scanned the article as Fred spoke, his voice gentle and patient.

“For every one of these events there are a dozen people doing good things. Brave, selfless things. I know it doesn’t negate the losses, but maybe, after you’ve grieved, there might be a little room to acknowledge the people whose actions still made a difference.” He pointed to the tiny bodies of children enfolded in their parent’s arms. “It made a difference to these families.”

Aziraphale stared at the grainy newspaper pictures, a tiny burst of hope springing forth inside him.

“The helpers,” he whispered. “Look for the helpers…where have I heard that before?”

“I don’t know,” the man said. “Sounds like it might be good advice, though.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Thank you,” he said, but when he looked up the man was gone.

+++

**In the Sherlock universe, sometime before 2010, a man sits on the ground...**

John pushed his fists into his eyes, furious with himself. Why was he crying here, of all places? Of course he knew the answer; a single backfiring car and he was back in Kandahar, shaking and bleeding all over the ground. Even now, his vision was changing between one blink and the next. Sand and concrete, desert and city. Nothing the same, nothing quite right, and every fibre of his being screaming at him to flee. He could feel himself shaking, the fear pounding through his veins as people rushed past, so caught up in their own lives they either didn’t see or care.

Except one.

“You were a soldier.” The words were matter of fact, and John didn’t even know they were addressed to him until his vision, flickering between a busy London street and a sandy desert road, was filled instead with a black coat. He blinked, pulled out of himself for a second. The person in the coat dropped down in front of him, and suddenly there were eyes. Blue eyes, or green, or yellow; they changed, a fascinatingly imprecise mix of colours. Captivating, he thought absently as the panic pushed back through.

“Concentrate on me,” the voice came again, deep and commanding. “Breathe with me.” Someone took his hand and pressed it to a chest; a skinny male chest, his medical background told him, but as the chest rose slowly and deeply, pausing before the breath was exhaled, he found himself copying the action.

In.

Pause.

Out.

The voice didn’t stop, a murmuring undertone of encouragement and probably nonsense; John had no idea, and as his panic eased he didn’t even care. Whatever this guy was doing, it was working. He could still feel his pulse was too high, but the flickering vision was gone and the shaking was less intense. He continued breathing until his body was calm again, holding onto those remarkable eyes with all his strength.

As soon as the hand holding his loosened, John flexed it, pulling it back towards his body. He was sweaty and exhausted; experience told him he’d need half a day in bed at least, not to mention a shower. Stress sweat bore a pretty powerful smell.

“Better?” the voice asked.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Thank you.” He expected the person to leave – didn’t they always – but as he blinked, and the face came into focus, John heard the words.

“The name's Holmes. I'm looking for a flatmate…”


End file.
